


Requiem

by awanderingscholar



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Assassin's Creed AU, Basically your average day in the POIverse, Brawling/Drinking/Assassinations/Train Hideouts, Crossover, F/F, and flirting can't forget that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5273243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awanderingscholar/pseuds/awanderingscholar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong>Victorian London:</strong> the heart of an industrial and economical revolution. Civilisation continues to evolve whilst an ancient war simmers beneath the surface; a fight for control over the world’s new-found potential. Only one side shall emerge from the ashes in victory, but which shall it be? (A crossover for Person of Interest and Assassin’s Creed: Syndicate, mostly Shoot centric)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

######  **November 1855**

An acrid smoke riddled fog had crept over the chilled evening streets of London, sinking between looming buildings and driving itself into every nook. From factories near the slums of Whitechapel men, women and children pour out in streams, all rushing along determined to return home.

Every Monday to Saturday twelve-year-old Samantha Groves and her friend Hanna Frey follow an identical routine. Leaving the boxish room their families share and walking the narrow streets to the matchstick factory where they work from 6 AM to 8 PM. Once their day ends, they collect their pay and head home to a bland bowl of gruel and a chilled attempt at rest before waking up the next day to repeat the routine.

Tonight she follows that same route, weaving between taller individuals to escape the crushing sea of bodies. Yet as she walks, her mind is elsewhere. The whereabouts of her friend was bothering her. _Hanna wasn’t ill, I’d have know if she was ill. They’ve never cared before, why would they care now?_ she muses as she walks glancing down at the glint of silver hidden inside her jacket. Despite her attempts to locate her friend at the end of the day, all she’d discovered was that a girl, she supposed was Hanna, had been sent home ill. The last time Samantha saw her, Hanna was being summoned away in the direction of the foreman Trent’s office. Hugging her jacket tighter to her slender frame, she picked up her pace feeling the hard press of the pocket watch she’d stolen earlier that day at her side.

What very few people realise about Samantha is just how fleet her fingers really are. She had a certain talent to make items disappear, a box of matches here, a purse there, perhaps even that favourite trinket kept in a pocket. Yet no one had ever come to suspect the quiet girl, in fact practically every time something went amiss someone else took the fall. She should feel sorry, but in a world where you have to fight merely to exist, why should she? If they weren’t smart enough to look after themselves they deserved what came for them. Some might say that living in the darkest borough of London alters your perception of how the world works and that wasn’t untrue. Samantha had used her initiative to learn the variety of trades from thieving to deception alike until she’d perfected the art to a science. After all, the streets were ripe with opportunity around every corner you simply had to seize it.

Usually her antics never plagued her conscience much, she was doing this to survive after all, but something about seeing her closest thing to a friend called away didn’t sit right. _Was it my fault she was summoned? But why would it be? No one knows about me._ Frowning as she continued her journey she thought back to her near confrontation with the hulking overseers who had dismissed any further questions with a look that threatened a beating or in some instances worse. There was no way to argue or get around them and eventually she’d been forced to leave the factory and make her journey home alone. _Maybe she’ll be home when I get there? Maybe she did get sent home sick._

Her journey finally ends at a long, straight, hopeless street of cramped regularly-built brick houses. Littering the narrow path between yards crowds of figures squat around fires, attempting in vain to chase away the chill of winter setting in. Carefully she picks her way through the dismal desperation, ears tuning out the sounds of pained groaning and muttering echoing from behind the gates she passes by avoiding puddles at all cost. A short while later she stops, turning to lift the rough latch on a gate, allowing herself to slip through into a yard where more people huddled. Stepping over a sprawled man, possibly asleep or even drunk, she continues paying them no heed until she pushes through the back door to the stained brick building.

Allowing the door to rattle shut behind her Samantha lifts her head untucking her hands from under her arms savouring the moderate increase in warmth the house offers. Her feet carry her directly into the cluttered kitchen where an acknowledging nod was given to the kindly round-faced, round-bodied Mrs. Robertson who was tending to the food. Fetching a couple of bowls and spoons stacked on the far shelf, Samantha proceeds back to the crackling fire over which a pot of food bubbles. Ignoring the smell she ladles some gruel into the bowls before making her swift exit. “Ta Mrs. R” she calls over her shoulder as she retreats into the creaky stairwell climbing her way to the second floor.

Seeing the door partially ajar and a flickering light from inside Samantha’s body stills, listening to any sound from the other side half-hoping to hear Hanna’s voice but instead receives only silence. Toeing the door cautiously open with the front of her boot she nudges her way inside, lips pressing tightly together at what she fails to see. Her friend is nowhere in sight. _If Hanna isn’t here, where is she?_ A dread sinks like a stack of bricks to settle at the bottom of her gut, looking instead between the wiry frame of Mrs. Frey whose face was set in concentration mending a tear in a jacket, and her own ailing mother in her cot. Her gaze lingers on her mother noting that she’s barely shifted her position from when they had departed that morning. _She’s getting worse_ , she thinks to herself.

Her entrance caught the attention of Mrs. Frey who glances up from her steady needlework with curious eyes sending an odd chill through Samantha’s body. “Is Hanna back with ya’ lass?”

Warm eyes held Root fast to the spot, like a deer caught in headlights with no real idea of what to say. Her mind blanks as she searches for the right response. Instead uttering the first one which comes to mind her instinct of self-preservation rising in her defense. “No, she- She said she’d be back later” her words earn a quizzical look but an eventual nod of acceptance from her friend’s mother who shortly returned back to work muttering something about giving Hanna an earful when she got back for going out.

Letting out a quiet breath Samantha steps further into the room and takes up a seat beside her mother’s cot looking down at her pale face; pallor accentuated by the darkness of her hair. The only sign she was still holding on a thread of life being the restricted rise and fall of her chest or hacking cough that occasionally broke the room’s silence. Setting her bowl down Samantha takes the spoon in her main hand dipping it into the bowl she’d kept to scoop up some of the watery oatmeal, a little dripping off as she tried to rouse her barely conscious mother. “Ma? It’s Sammy, I’ve got food.” She watches as her voice stirs some form of life back into the gaunt form, the tired hazel eyes much like her own fluttering open, blank and lacking recognition at first.

“S-Sammy?” came her rasping voice, pathetically feeble and barely audible. For as long as Samantha could remember her mother’s health had slowly deteriorated, she’d watched as each day of work in the cotton mill’s card-room robbed more time away from her mother’s life before she’d finally grown too ill to continue, leaving Samantha alone as head of their family of two to find ways of keeping a roof over their heads.

“Yes ma’ it’s me,” her mother was a living corpse and it was all caused by disregard of greedy foremen who preferred to line their pockets instead of investing in proper ventilation wheels, it was a bitter fact she’d accepted a long time ago. One that only extended her growing list of reasons why she no longer really empathised with the suffering in the world. Whatever level of society you went to only one fact seems to prove itself true; people were only concerned with their own survival. The only way to get ahead was to forge your own path, alone.

Waiting until her mother had battled to a sitting position wheezing with the effort, Samantha hands the bowl and spoon over once she is sure the older woman has recovered enough of her breath.

Distinctly aware of the weak “ta” she was given for handing over the food Samantha picks up her own bowl letting it warm her hands as her eyes return to the frame of the door. Settling back in her chair she took a small sip of the contents to patiently await Hanna’s return.

######  **November 1855**

An eleven-year-old Sameen Shaw could currently be found doing something that she was completely certain that, if caught by the adults in the house, would be seen as  _very_ unladylike.

Earlier that evening her time reading in the study by the roaring fire in her favourite leather armchair with her baba had been interrupted by an intrusive knock at the door. After answering it he had returned a stern hint in his countenance which brokered no argument. “Time to go upstairs to bed ثمین, I have some business I must see to with our guests” he had stated waiting for her to set down the book she’d been reading and push up from the armchair. Like every evening, Asim had walked over to her, strong arms pulling a small Sam into a tight hug before stooping to press a kiss to her head. She’d only been released after receiving both and seeing her father’s proud smile despite the apparently indifferent response he was given in return.

She had done as she was told and settled down for the night, for a time, at least until she heard raised voices from downstairs leading her to the situation in which she currently found herself. Perched on the stairs, she was eavesdropping through the bars on the conversation occurring behind her baba’s office door, ready to flee upstairs at a moment’s notice to the safety of her room and avoid being caught. These meetings had been occurring more frequently of late and made little sense to her. Ever since they fled from Iran when she was younger these men in red jackets, or others with a red cross on a white background emblazoned somewhere on their person showed up on a monthly basis with consistent requests, always leaving her baba in a sour state.

Their conversation tonight seemed different however, normally they would show up during the day and discuss business whilst Sameen would have to act like a genteel young lady. Tonight, they seemed to have taken her baba by surprise and their discussion was far more heated than any she’d heard before.

Eventually her patience rewarded her, hearing the strong distinct tone of her baba addressing their late night visitors “you have no right to come into my home and speak to me this way.”

His words earned a harsh bark of laughter followed by heavy footsteps, most likely belonging to the next voice “we ‘ave every right t’come in ‘ere _Simmy_.” Sam could practically hear the sneer in the man’s voice as he addressed her baba, the tone lighting a fire in her to march in and defend him from whatever goons had intruded into their home. She might not behave in the way most would expect her to, but whatever the case, one thing was for certain and that was no one came into their home and spoke to her baba with such disrespect. She’d been raised with the belief that helping people was better than hurting them and thought it was true for the most part. _Sometimes though hurting them helps just as much_ , she thinks sardonically.

Her glowering attention was snapped back to the conversation when another voice joined the conversation a middle class lilt to his words “you should be more grateful to your benefactors. After everything we’ve done for you Mr. Shaw, without _us_ you and your girl would have been six feet under a long time back.” Sameen frowned, this had something to do with their escape to the British Isles and she knew it was a difficult topic for her baba to discuss after her mother had been captured in the raid of their ship prior to its departure. She rarely asked him, though she was still curious to learn more. “ _We’re_ the ones who smuggled what remains of your family away from the clutches of those who wanted you dead or have you forgotten?”

Her baba’s voice cut in, swift and calm as ever but with an iced edge she had only heard him use when someone had done something to provoke his casual anger, which was perhaps a scarier experience for most than when he did lose his temper with someone. “I haven’t forgotten, but it doesn’t change the situation” she hears him respond “this coming winter is a harsh one and the supplies you have me transport are valuable, as I told you in my letter - the last shipment was attacked by raiders which had nothing to do with me.”

“Sounds like excuses t’me. ‘Eh _Simmy_?” the first voice grated causing Sameen’s frown to deepen at the way he drawled out her baba’s name like it was a piece of unwanted dirt on his boot. A fierce glare was shot at the door which might’ve ended up singing a hole in it with her distaste alone. “Think we’re dumb enough to honestly believe that you didn’t take a cut of the last shipment for y’self? Mr. Greer made his terms very clear didn’t he? Won’t be a happy man to know you’re cutting his supply chain short of its supplies,” a long pause was followed by footsteps in the direction of the door causing Sam to tense lifting herself up slightly ready to bolt.

“Coming into my home and behaving this way won’t change the weather or make your shipments arrive any faster as you want them” came the business like response from her baba. “I didn’t take anything for myself, I simply make the deliveries just like I always have, you are responsible for the security of the delivery.”

The footsteps near the doors cease “perhaps we haven’t made Mr. Greer’s intentions clear enough to you Mr. Shaw. We already have your wife, do you really want to test us?” Sameen felt her pulse pick up at the mention of her mother. _She’s alive? Why did he never tell me?_ “Should you not make good on your end of our business agreement and that means meeting our necessary quotas. We will take that little girl of yours and put her on the next ship back to Iran. See how those reformists like her now she’s all grown up, hm?” the upperclassman’s voice jeered apparently enjoying the chance to flaunt his upper hand in this situation. “Then after watching you lose her we’ll put you and your wife in the ground; where you would have been without our assistance eight years ago.”

The threat hung in the air for a while with Shaw continuing to listen silently until her baba’s defeated voice registered, “I’ll fill them Lambert, I don’t know how I’ll manage it but I will… Just leave Sam out of this please. She’s done nothing to you.”

“No she hasn’t Mr. Shaw but you have. Consider this a warning. Next time we will be back to collect, be it the delivery or your daughter, it doesn’t matter. Do not fail us again.”

Having heard enough and seeing the shadow skim across the door once more Sam scampered up the stairs, edging onto the landing in time to miss being caught in the dark gaze of their visitors. _What is he doing conducting business with those men? More importantly who is this Mr. Greer?_ She could tell already that whoever this man was she didn’t like him in the slightest. Creeping along the hall to her room, she snuck inside shutting the door and hearing the departure of the men below.

“I’m glad we could have this talk Mr. Shaw, this has been productive I think. We’ll be seeing you again soon.”

######  ** December 1855 **

Snow swirled lazily down from the grey skies overhead clinging to Samantha’s hair and clothes as she stood at the edge of the graveyard studying with solemn eyes the plot of ground where her mother now rested. She’s suffered long enough, the cold took her in the end, she’s better off now. A few people had come to pay their respects, not that Samantha minded, doubting she’d be able to stomach listening to numerous bereaved words given simply out of socially expected sympathy. One surprise she hadn’t anticipated had been the arrival of Hanna’s mother; her face aged from the worry of the last month. Hanna had never returned that fateful night, and her mother had ended up going to the police with a hope that they would find her. A part of Samantha had known that night that they would never be seeing Hanna’s face again.

When the police had come she’d spoken with them, telling them the last things she’d seen of Hanna in Mr. Russell Trent’s workhouse. The investigation had been ongoing but ultimately, turned up no leads of use. Luckily for Mr. Trent it had left his good reputation fully intact and untouched by the case. Eventually after some digging of her own, Samantha had found out that the real reason behind the case being written off as a runaway,had nothing to do with law and order. In fact, it had been a matter of the case costing too much time and money on the department’s schedule for a girl who wouldn’t really be missed. During her last week in the factory she’d heard another rumour circulating that Mr. Trent had used his influence and resources to have the inquiry ceased and save his company in the process. The case seemed to have done him more good than harm, the attention of the case and media bringing him into the spotlight of society and boosted his sales.

Whatever the truth was, in the end anything that Samantha had said and seen was simply disregarded as unimportant. The memory of being informed about the now closed case still made her gut twist hotly in anger. The news had also proved Samantha’s theory about injustice in the world once more undeniably true. Everything she could have done to help she had done, only to end up with her efforts being for naught, it was an invaluable lesson in the workings of life. If she wanted to make sure that the truth of this was ever settled then there was no way she could rely on others to do it for her, the only way to make a difference, to make sure people good or bad got what they deserved was to set the set the outcome herself. She’d made a decision that day to tip the scales in her favour, whatever the case she would be the one coming out on top and anyone who got in her way wouldn’t return from the resulting crush.

With her mother’s passing there no longer existed any attachments to the life she’d lived before. She’d left no strings and so with a small distasteful curl of her lips she turned away, walking to the wrought iron gate, pushing it open and stepping out onto the street beyond. A single destination was in her mind as she started walking, thinking on where she was heading next in her life with each step that she took. She had no more ties left to her previous life and she was free to pursue her talents, as her mother had encouraged her to, free to follow the path she’d already begun to forge for herself in the criminal underbelly of the city. With her network of roots already spreading the only way to continue was upwards from here, she knew it would take time and work, but a determination filled her to create a new identity. Something the likes this city would revere and respect, she smiled, confidence blossoming in her chest as she continued her pace through the streets towards her next destination.

A while later, having departed the run down slums of Eastern London she stopped, spotting the mark she’d come in search of. Hunching down she flicked out a small knife, digging it into the crumbling mortar of a brick wall to pry loose some of the bricks. Placing them aside she reached into the open space hidden behind to retrieve a wrapped parcel from within before reversing the process and replacing the bricks where they’d been originally. Stealing a quick glance over her shoulder around the deserted alley to make sure sure that she was alone, she switched her former tattered threads for the clean fresh ones hidden within. Slipping the warm black jacket over her shoulders there was no helping the flood of relief it brought to her when she stood, savouring the comfortable fit and feel of her new attire. Every time she shed her former identity she felt tremendously better for it. Liberated from the shackles of her previous existence and instead slipping into a new skin; transforming herself into something better than what she’d been before.

Now that she was adequately suited and equipped she dropped her old clothes in a pile she rolled her shoulders back, there was no reason to ever come back here again. With a determined look she straightened, fixing her tool belt under her jacket and finished the short trip to the courtyard where three other individuals were waiting, all turning at her approach. “You the cracksman for our job lass?” one of them asked eyeing her speculatively.

Shooting him a disarmingly charming smile she nodded a wicked flare in her eyes, “that’s me, and _please_ , call me Root.”

######  **January 1856**

The thundering hooves of their horses upon the cobblestone road echoes in Sameen’s ears as she sat in the rocking carriage opposite her baba. She could feel the cool, crisp wind whistling past their carriage whilst she watched the sun sinking lower on the horizon; setting the skies on fire with streaks of reds, oranges and pinks. Their carriage charged down the streets leading out of the city only ever slowing when taking a sharp turn. Where they were heading she couldn’t tell, but in the last week she’d picked up on the telltale signs of anxiety from her baba.

Asim was on edge, and Sameen’s suspicions that this had something to do with their threatening visitors a few months back were only heightened when she’d been urged that afternoon to pack up a trunk with anything she deemed necessary. “ _We’re going to get some time away from the city, yes? Go to the country..._ ” she recalls the waver in her baba’s voice and the way his eyes flickered around as if expecting some imminent ambush before he’d bundled her into the carriage loaded with their items.

They’d set off immediately, at an urgent pace away from their home near St. James’ Square, leaving her pondering exactly _who_ these people that they were fleeing were. Glancing down to the newspaper settled on her lap, Sameen ran her hands over the creases in the paper flattening them out to scan over the headline. The main news and text detailed a recent string of increasingly successful and daring robberies reported in and around the boroughs of Westminster or The Strand. The same individual was suspected to be the culprit for each crime; leaving no trace of their presence along with no hint as to how they’d pulled the crime off, always leaving the windows and doors fully intact. In each case only the single most expensive items were ever reported missing, ranging from jewelry to paintings with no other evidence behind to note. Picking out no other interesting articles in the document Sameen sighed, folding it over and setting it aside the weight of her previous thoughts returning.

Eventually the tension radiating from her father grew to to be too much, and Sam sat up straighter, “baba?” she waited for his attention to leave the roads outside and settle on her. Meeting his gaze steadily with no apparent trace of what was running through her mind as she spoke, “why are we running again?”

Asim’s jaw briefly tensed and ground at her question before relaxing, his answer not as satisfactory as what she’d been aiming for “we aren’t running, we’re taking a trip like I sai-“

A quiet huff escaped Sam prior to cutting off his deflection. “I know about the men baba, I know they threatened you and our family,” her eyes never left his as she spoke, seeing each word uttered cause his brows to furrow a little deeper until a tense silence filled the carriage. “I also know they talked about mama...”

Asim remained silent, studying his daughter with a careful calculation in his eyes until he relented with a nod and a sad smile. Raising his hand to muss her hair affectionately, there was no hint of anger apparent at her revelation. “You always were the most intelligent girl Sam, you seem to already know why we are leaving.” He paused to gather his thoughts prior to continuing. ”Those men were my contacts when you were small. You see, when we had to flee our home they helped get you and your mother safe passage to the British Isles, gave us a life to come to. But there was a price, it was all business - in return for their help. Once I was over here I had to transport items for them into and out of the country, there was little choice in the matter.”

Sam listened with rapt interest, hooked on every word her father had to deliver about what was occurring, glancing away as she processed the information she couldn’t help but intervene once more “what about mama?”

The question earned a nostalgic look to appear in her father’s features as he reached to take her hands in his own, “before our ship left it was attacked you remember?” she nodded. “I thought that it was reformists at the time, but it turned out that those men you spoke of? They had been-” Her father’s explanation was abruptly cut short by a jarring impact on his side of the carriage, causing it to jolt violently to one side, from the window Sam could hear the sounds of the horses panicking. In their fright they pulled the carriage forward faster, the world outside whipping by in a blur of motion accompanied by the pounding of another carriage’s wheels somewhere outside.

“Sam get down!” she heard her father order and immediately she did as she was told, feeling his weight shield her moments prior to another crashing impact. The collision was immediately followed by the cracking sound of splintering wood and piercing screech of metal against metal. Sparks lit up the darkness as the front wheel rattled giving way, causing one side of the carriage to drop the rushing ground outside coming into sharp focus. The carriage was careening freely, dragged along by terrified animals before a third and final slam on her side of the carriage sent the world spinning away.

There was no way to describe the brief moment of time which existed between being sure of your placement and suddenly having all sense of direction ripped away, leaving you suspended in a void of weightlessness as the world crashes and flies away around you. That is until it’s replaced at once by the feeling of plummeting and rolling back down to earth at high speed. Sam’s slender frame was rattled by each crashing impact as the carriage rolled over on itself down the ditch at the side of the road. At some point during their descent her head cracked into the side of the carriage as it crumpled, causing the world to lose its focus and fade away to blackness. The last thing which registered before passing out were the petrified screams of animals and creak of wood around her.

When Sam came to with a pained groan and a retching cough, the world was resting at an odd angle and the smell of charred wood and smoke filled the air. Her head pounded, bones ached, eyes burned, throat felt like it was on fire and to top it all off she couldn’t move. She was trapped by something vaguely warm, and any attempt she made to move it only caused her vision to swim out of focus until it dawned on her how futile an effort it was anyway. The only route she could see out was the window angled upwards, to get out she’d have to climb and there was no way her body would permit her to do that. Dropping back down she noticed a wet trail of blood on the side of her face, dripping onto the side of the carriage she was pinned against.

From where she lay the sound of voices and far off ring of police bells tolled. but her eyes were drawn to a lone shadow running to the carriage blocking out any view she’d had previously to the outside world. The figure - a man she guessed by his size grabbed ahold of the door and wrenched it off with a grunt, scanning inside with a grim expression at what he saw until he noticed her looking back at him through the coiling smoke. “Hey kid,” he called focus pulled from the other unmoving body inside, “I’m going to get you out of there, don’t worry.” His voice was rough but laced with a kindness that most adults adopted when trying to keep a child calm and not to panic them. Sameen simply peered back at him with a painful nod. “What’s your name?”

“Sameen.”

“Okay Sameen, hold on” the figure muttered, before he leaned in hooking his hands under her arms and pulled the weight over her rolling away in the process. The movements sent sharp pains shooting throughout her body but she gritted her teeth as the man hauled her out and away from the carriage to set her down nearby. “You hurt?” he asked glancing to the blood on her head.

“I’m fine,” she answered, looking past him back to the carriage which she could now see was partially engulfed by flames, likely caused by the front gaslamps. Looking back to the stranger and then over to the carriage, she asked, “do you know where my baba is? Is he trapped in the carriage?”

A shadow passed over the man’s features who appeared to be contemplating how best to break the news, resting his hands on his knees as he crouched down to be on her level. “Sameen, you were involved in a terrible accident, and your father,” he hesitated glancing back to the carriage where more figures were dousing the flames with buckets of water. “Like you hitting your head,” he took another pause “he got hurt.”

A look of confusion was earned in response, “Then should you not be helping him? I told you sir, I’m fine, but if he is in there he needs to get out” she pointed out matter-of-factly wrapping her arms around her body as she regarded him.

“Look Sameen,” her rescuer gave a grim smile, “sometimes people get hurt so bad that they fall asleep and they don’t wake up.”

Sameen considered this information, her gaze drawn back to the carriage where she saw a group of people pulling out a humanoid shape and blinked back to the man.

“You mean he’s dead?” she concluded, like she’d solved a simple puzzle she’d been handed.

For a short time the man seemed perplexed by her lack of reaction before his surprise settled to a calm composure once more. “Yes, I’m sorry Sameen but we’ll get you home. Is there anyone we can take you to? Your mother?” Sameen thought back to the conversation she’d been having with her father before the accident, shaking her head and earned a sympathetic look from the man. “I had hoped this wouldn’t be the case,” he sighed.

Feeling the small buzz of confusion grow Sameen regarded the man warily, now that the smoke was clearing she could make out his features; cropped greying hair and bright blue eyes. “What do you mean?”

“We knew that the people behind this were going to act tonight, but by the time we got here, we were too late.”

“You knew this was going to happen?” she echoed suddenly cautious of this stranger. “Are you part of the police?”

“Not exactly, my name is William Reese. I work for an organisation which fights for... justice,” he clarified after a moment searching for the right word. “We hope to free this city of people like those who threatened your family and your life.” The gears were turning faster in Sameen’s mind the more she listened. “However, this isn’t the place to discuss such matters. For now, you’ll return home with myself and my son John,” he nodded over to a boy in his twenties that had a similar stern countenance as his father. “We’ll get you patched up and perhaps help you understand what happened.” He stood, extending a hand down for her to take, a patient look she’d seen many a time on her own father’s face gazing down at her.

Hesitantly she grabbed ahold using it to straighten herself up, feeling her stomach growl in the process “Mister. Reese?”

“Yes Sameen?”

“Will there by any chance be some food?”

An amused crinkle came to his eyes at her question “I’m sure we’ll find something for you to have yes. Let us get away from here, we’ve lingered longer than necessary.” With a final glance at the scene of destruction behind them Sameen trailed behind the two men as they departed the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we go, the first part of the story got a lot longer than anticipated but hopefully you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read, let me know? A big thank you to Cassie for beta reading this for me, and also to Paula who helped to develop the plot and story without who this wouldn't have likely been written. This is my first time attempting a longer story and the first time I've ever attempted to write Team Machine so I hope you liked it! I've got the story planned out and hopefully I'll be able to finish it, the next chapter should be up soon!
> 
> -
> 
> In this Root’s mother suffers from Byssinosis; an occupational lung disease caused by exposure to cotton dust in inadequately vented working environments, In the Victorian era it was common for workers in the card room to suffer from this due to the cotton fluff being ground into fine white dust which entered the lungs causing the respiratory system to scar and ultimately fail.
> 
> ثمین is also Arabic for Sameen but it can also mean dear/precious.  
> A cracksman is Victorian slang for a burglar, since Root was already on the thievery path prior to Hanna’s disappearance you’ll probably see the odd bit of jargon thrown in here and there.


	2. First Encounters

###### 1868

The still late afternoon air moved slightly as a hooded shadow fled across rooftops, vaulting silently from one roof to another to the tune of the streets of London far below. Tiles clacked as booted feet skimmed over them, sending mild vibrations through the building’s coverings. The figure’s clothes followed the movement of the air, material rustling in the silence. Her body moved effortlessly each movement drilled into her mind climbing the chimneys, leaping the gaps between buildings only to catch the edge of another, pulling up and running on once more. No one stopped her up here, they didn’t ever think of putting guards on the roofs. After all, who would be mad enough to be up here at risk of plummeting to their deaths below?

Smiling to no one in particular, the jumping woman continued her journey with only one destination in mind. After several more jumps and grabs her pace began to slow as she approached the meeting point she’d learned of through her investigations. Dropping to a crouch the woman neared the edge of the rooftop from her vantage point making an inspection of the scene unfolding below.

Without even having to think on it her view of the world began to shift, the vibrant colours and noise of the day dulling to superfluous background noise leaving only the things necessary to her task. The first time she discovered her ability was on her first kill mission - to take out the leader of a rival gang. She had needed to secure control of his lackeys to strengthen her own grip on the underground’s system, she’d been scouting the area for him when her vision had suddenly faded, leaving only Royce O’Sullivan with an oddly golden haze and his hired muscle in a similar crimson. She recalled looking down at her own hands, which had a fascinating ethereal blue tint to them in turn. The experience had been confusing, but she’d completed her mission either way once her sight returned to normal, and once she escaped she took to practising on this ability until it became a second nature in her scouting. With practise she learned that her targets were always gold, her (few) allies blue, and any useful intel or associates white, leaving the rest of the world in an unimportant void beyond her focus.

Detecting the golden aura of her target nearing the perfect point for an ambush, her eyes were drawn by a miniscule shift in the darkness beyond alerting her to his potential ambusher, picking them out in a familiar white aura of their own which caused a spark of excitement to flare in her, _smart girl_ she thought to herself as she watched in admiration as Sameen Shaw prepared to take out the target below. She’d been trailing the Assassins for a time now, and witnessing Sameen’s talent as it had grown was now favourite personal pastime.

Back on the rooftops the hidden figure pulled out a perfectly balanced throwing knife from the pouch on her shoulder in one swift motion, blade glinting as it caught the light whilst she gauged the distance. Drawing her arm back and taking aim she flicked her arm forwards sending the blade spinning to its final resting place; which happened to be the target’s neck. She knew even without looking the stunned look she’d be receiving from the shadows and before she made her retreat there was no helping the flash of a smirk shot in the direction of the shadows below.

Turning she took off in a fast run for the next rooftop hearing the rattle of a grapple secure home in the spot she’d been moments prior. Though before she could be spotted, Root allowed her body to twist, dropping off the edge of the roof, her fingers caught a hold so she could descend vanishing into the throngs of milling citizens. She walked briskly, pushing her hood down and letting her hair loose as she walked adrenaline buzzing from the thrill of almost being caught.

* * *

Shaw was crouched, watching the townspeople bustling through the busy street from the shadows she’d concealed herself in. She observed every interaction closely, eyes darting between individuals, examining each miniscule movement that passed her by; every hand gesture or pace, waiting, watching, _seeking_. Her sixth sense could make locating her target so much easier but she found there was something about the hunt that made this so much more, rewarding. He was in the crowds somewhere, and he would show himself soon enough, she simply had to be patient enough since patience was the key to success in her line of work. When a group of police officers rounded the corner she brushed her hood up instinctively concealing her features, eyes narrowing as she watched them pass by continuing down the street paying her no heed. They never did, blind to the very nature of the threat lurking in their midst.

A sound from the street tunnel caused her head to turn a fraction of an inch, looking to the sound of boots echoing off the bricks. Immediately her eyes were drawn to a stocky figure striding meaningfully albeit cautiously away from the main crowds. Shaw felt her lips curl a fraction of an inch when she determined her target had arrived. Jerome Eckert, a local corrupt government official and Templar agent working for their Samaritan branch, following the same path she’d determined he would. All she had to do now was wait for him to pass by, positioning himself so she could lean out, grab and put her blade through his throat to silence him. Flicking her wrist down she let the hidden blade extend and lock into place, muscles tensed ready to pounce feeling the surge of adrenaline which caused her heart to pick up as her target drew closer and closer.

Until he staggered, letting out a strangled choke she watched in a brief moment of shock as his hands went to hold his neck where a silver blade had lodged itself spilling crimson over his crisp white shirt. Before his body even hit the ground Shaw’s eyes shifted upwards to the rooftops searching and spotting the assailant clad in black who seemed to be staring directly at her, the only visible feature Shaw was able to make out being an impish smirk under a heavy hood.

Without hesitation Shaw departed the shadows at a sprint shoving screaming bystanders aside, she lifted her gauntlet bound arm to aim for the spot the figure had been moments prior; fleeing in a whip of motion but Shaw would be damned before she lost whoever had just poached her kill. Firing off the rope launcher she allowed the grapple to secure, jumping as she swiftly ascended the building’s facade the gears of her gauntlet grinding as she reeled herself up.

Reaching the spot the other figure had been Shaw scowled finding no one in sight. She jogged across to the other side of the roof peering down at the milling citizens below attempting to pick out any figure which seemed misplaced amongst them. Finding nothing she cursed under her breath, wondering who on Earth had interrupted her mission. With a sigh she left the rooftop, Finch and Reese would need to hear about this development.

* * *

The train whistle blew just as Shaw jogged up the stairs to Waterloo station towards the train pulling away from the platform at a gradually increasing pace beyond pissed at the events of today. She cut her way through the crowds, a scowl set on her features which made any who looked at her immediately move aside allowing her to slip past until she was sprinting alongside the carriages, waiting for the right moment to jump aboard. Eventually spotting an opening Shaw launched herself from the platform, hand securing ahold of one of the handles to heave her weight aboard and not overshoot the jump. Once sure of her stance Shaw glanced at the city coming into view as the train departed the station before she stepped inside of the lavishly decorated train hideout equipped for all their essential needs.

Shaw stalked down the train without much hassle from the few other Creed members aboard the scowl she wore warning them that it was better to leave her be right now. Walking through the carriage dedicated to their assassination targets she eventually crossed the most recent addition, immediately being struck by the musty smell of ink, leather and paper which clung to the compartment. The portable base of operations had made their lives easier in regards to escaping detection by the Templars and their Samaritan branch of operations but they still had to be wary.

Just as she expected she found the dark haired man she had come here to speak with sat at the old desk writing notes on some crafty invention or another, occasionally glancing at his pocket watch set on the side. Settled nearby in another chair occupied with cleaning the chamber of his gun was another familiar face, both men looked up at the sound of her entrance and she ignored the nod of greeting John gave. Taking up a position leaning against the wall of the carriage by Finch’s desk, arms folded over her chest.

“Miss Shaw,” Harold greeted, continuing to write his notes “we weren’t expecting you back so soon.” He seemed to pick up on the prowling agitation that Shaw radiated after a moment adding “did something go amiss?”

“You could say that Finch,” she retorted drily, words clipped “was anyone else put on this target?”

Finch looked at Shaw for a few moments his intelligent eyes framed by his glasses attempting to pick up the details of her simmering frustration, glancing over his shoulder at John whose attention had been caught by the conversation and then back to Shaw. “Nothing that I was notified of, what seems to be the problem?”

“It isn’t what Finch, it’s _who_ ” Shaw answered acidly, thinking back to that smug smirk playing on repeat in her mind’s eye during her journey back to the station. “Someone interfered,” she said by way of explanation “a woman,” she added watching as the clarification caused Finch’s eyebrows to raise marginally in surprise at her specifics. They didn’t question her, Shaw was one of the best in the Creed, trained by John’s father in the techniques of the Assassin’s ever since they had taken her in after the accident. She’d risen quickly, showing a natural affinity for the training and lifestyle they lived, her more muted view on the world also led her to being one of their most objective and skilled members and tacticians among their ranks. If she said their target was female then that would be what they searched for, though the fact that someone had managed to get the drop on Shaw was still concerning.

“Do you think she was a Templar agent?” John’s serious voice cut through her anger causing her to turn fractionally, noticing how he seemed to stand calm even in the face of her foul temper, shaking her head curtly.

“If she were a Templar why would she kill one of their own agents and not me? If she could hit a man in his neck with a blade from that distance she could have done the same to me. No, she wasn’t a part of the Templars or its Samaritan branch, she was someone else and I want to find out who she is.”

Finch looked perturbed by the notion of Shaw’s intended hunt, adjusting his glasses as he sat back in his seat “was there any evidence?”

“Nothing besides this,” she fished out the intricate throwing knife she’d retrieved from the scene before her return, clean of the blood that had stained the perfectly balanced blade previously. Rotating it so she could grasp the blade between the pads of her fingers mindful not to cut herself she displayed the forged hilt, sensing John’s looming presence nearby suggesting he’d gotten up from his seat. “The blade must be a custom weapon, look at the detail on the hilt” whilst she spoke her thumb trailed some of the strange network of roots stemming from what appeared to be the stump of a tree, the pattern wrapping its way down to the end of the grip. “Any ideas?”

“Perhaps a calling card?” Finch offered seeming hesitant to extend his palm “may I?” His prompt caused Shaw to look at him skeptically before handing it over with a quiet huff, though once Finch had the blade he lifted it closer to examine ignoring Shaw’s behaviour.

Deciding it was better to find a way to diffuse Shaw’s ratcheting tension Reese intervened, “there aren’t many places that sell weapons as well made as that, this woman must either have them imported or she has a way of getting ahold of them. Either way we’d be better off doing some street work to get some answers.”

Shaw begrudgingly tore her eyes from the blade, a sharp nod of agreement being earned in agreement to the plan. Despite being convinced on hunting whoever this bitch was down, Shaw knew that patience was the only option until they found some more leads to follow “so long as I get a drink and some rounds in the ring whilst we’re out.”

“Sounds fair,” John agreed glancing to Finch who seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, unaware of the conversation the pair of faux-siblings were having. When Shaw left for the end of the train to depart it grumbling under her breath it left the two men alone, one apparently too engrossed in his thoughts to have noticed Shaw’s departure.

Clearing his throat to get the inventor’s attention he waited until Finch was back with him before re-clarifying “we’re heading to the Crown to get something to drink and get rid of some of Shaw’s steam. If you want to come and join us?”

Finch simply shook his head gesturing with a wave of his hand after setting down the knife he’d been studying, “not tonight Mr. Reese, but thank you for the offer nevertheless. I have some work that I need to complete here.”

At Finch’s excuse John frowned eyeing the other man for a moment before accepting the dismissal, “of course, we’ll see you later then” he commented departing soon after, leaving the coach once more in silence.

For a time after Finch attempted to return to his work, though the task proved more difficult than anticipated, his mind distracted by a nagging possibility; one he didn’t wish to entertain but felt the need to consider. Making sure that Reese and Shaw had genuinely departed the train, Finch sighed pushing out his chair and rose to his feet. With a partially halting limp he made his way over to one of the bookshelves, pushing aside some books he reached a hand into the gap grasping ahold of a stack of papers neatly stashed behind.

With them in hand he returned to the desk, placing them down and lifted the first sheet carefully spreading out various newspaper articles and notes marked with his own cursive handwriting kept within. The articles all varied on topic; from kidnappings, murders, thefts, to a variety of impressive train robberies the first of which had been reported to have occurred in 1855. There had never been anything to connect the crimes, but each had been carried out with a growing professional finesse, each too good to be considered possible and yet he was currently looking at proof that they each had been conducted masterfully. Whoever this mastermind was, they had turned crime into an artform and the longer he studied the notes the more the idea took place in his mind. The mere thought alone filling him with an anxious dread at what it might mean, sinking into his chair heavily Finch lifted his glasses rubbing the bridge of his nose, _she couldn’t be back, could she?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it, the first chapter, sorry for the wait I've been double checking things over and over to make sure they all line up with the overall plot, I hope you've enjoyed it! All the comments so far have been really great to read, even the pms from some of you on tumblr - I appreciate them all so much! It definitely make me smile to know you’re all enjoying this as much as I am writing it! In the meantime there’s a little sideblog running on tumblr with little world building ideas/tidbits [here](http://poi-assassinscreed.tumblr.com/) if you want to check it out.
> 
> A little bit about Eagle vision (displayed by Root in this chapter) because for those of you who don’t know Assassin’s Creed, it might seem a little confusing. Eagle vision is a dormant sixth sense which nearly all humans have, the ability (once accessed) allows the user to see how people and objects relate to them; manifesting as a coloured glow very akin to an aura.
> 
>   * Gold indicates targets.
>   * Red indicates enemies.
>   * Blue indicates allies.
>   * White indicates something useful/intel or places to hide.
> 

> 
> Some assassins are trained to use this ability, but some individuals (like Root) have the right cluster of genes to hold a natural affinity for accessing it.
> 
>  **Fun fact:** In 1855 one of the greatest train robberies was carried out with nearly £12,000 (nearly £1 million in today’s currency) of Gold being stolen. Pretty cool right?


	3. Gears in Motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I want to say thanks again for reading and saying such nice things or just leaving kudos, it really does make my day whenever there’s a new notification from you guys.

###### 1960

In the argot of the underworld and even the common populace Root had come to be known by various names. Reinventing herself for every task and not dealing directly with her clientele who hired her to find a solution to their mistakes led to various misconceptions about her true identity. Ultimately, Root fixed problems; making a living off of other people’s misery by acting as an information broker and gathering intel by any means she could: bribes, eavesdropping, blackmail, burglary, frame-ups, paid informations and on the rarer occasions torture. But _everyone_ knows that torture rarely proved to give useful intel. Only for a steeper fee could she be hired to take a life, but those who did pay her were well-assured by her success rate in those missions. Unlike the other so-called leaders in the boroughs who sent their goons to carry out hits, Root preferred to take matters into her own hands. That way if things went wrong she could deal with them accordingly.

The latest commission had filtered through her network from a man in Samaritan Corporation, simply known as Lambert, who had made an above average payment for her to find and seize Harold Finch and his research. A simple job by all accounts, but still she’d done her fieldwork, scouting out his life for the few weeks prior - assessing where he went and who he met with to find the perfect moment to strike. By all appearances he seemed like an average joe, with an admittedly odd fascination with technology, whatever made him so worthwhile to this organisation she’d deduced had to be in his workshop. Normally she’d have completed the job already but something about this request didn’t quite sit right, and she wanted to know why.

Which was exactly why Root now found herself checking the back alleyway to the workshop, knowing that Mr. Finch wouldn’t be here for a while yet. Checking the lock on the door she wasn’t surprised to find it shut fast, smoothly crouching to closer assess the lock she slid her required tools out from the lining of her jacket inserting them into the lock. Manipulating the mechanisms efficiently, she heard a familiar click and with a smirk she stood, opening the door to slip into the threshold beyond.

The interior of the workshop was bright but silent in the early morning light she noted once her eyes had adjusted to the contrast, the windows in the walls and sliding panels of the roof had been left uncovered to admit the morning sunshine. On the main floor were desks, each holding various odd and unnamable contraptions, with stacks of neatly written notes besides each station of work. After a preliminary walk around she noted that the other side of the workshop had been turned into a makeshift library running from floor to ceiling. Each shelf filled with books and scrolls, inscribed with a number on the binding; some type of method of organisation she guessed returning back to her search. From her initial scan none of them seemed to be of use to anyone except perhaps a history keeper - collected tales and histories to entertain for a long time.

Occasionally a contraption or two would catch her eye, scanning over some notes on engines which he hoped would replace horse drawn carriages and instead have carriages propelled by these engines instead. Some of these inventions she could tell were history in the making. _There’s more to this story than I know. What could he be hiding?_ Root mused brushing her hand along the edge of the main counter. From what she understood of her target he was an incredibly smart man, which meant he wouldn’t leave his most important work on obvious display in the front of house. That left only one area she hadn’t explored yet, with a shift of her gaze she found the door to the backroom studio, heading directly for it.

The room she entered into was styled much like the main shop; a window overlooking a small garden, a wooden desk littered with books and papers, and, directly opposite the desk, a painting of a woman with red hair hung above an ornate mantle decorated with circular patterns. Out of everything in this room the painting was the only thing which seemed out of place, there were no other mementos of note so why this one?

Stopping in front of the painting she studied it, taking ahold of one corner she attempted to lift but found it was stuck fast. Apparently it hid something, which meant there had to be a trick to revealing its secrets. Retreating to grab a wooden chair she pulled it up to stand in front of the painting so could take a closer look at the details, trailing her fingers around the frame for any type of catch but finding none she frowned. Looking at the woman’s features and then down to her attire noting the inscription of a name in the bottom right hand corner, _Grace_. But no surname, absently reaching a hand to trail down the portrait following the key details until she stopped, sensing a shift in the sensation under the pads of her fingertips. Trailing her finger over the abrasion again she realised that there, in the centre of the necklace was a hole, impossible to spot by eye but discoverable by touch. _A keyhole perhaps? But where is the key_? Considering what she’d learned so far the painting was a lock, but perhaps it had more to offer.

Stepping down from the chair to assess the frame and mantle once more she eventually allowed the unnecessary details to drift away into darkness until she could solely concentrate on the painting alone. Only once she did so was it that Root noticed how certain corresponding lines, detailed within the background had a radiating white aura about them. One intersecting triangular glyph stood prominent and below it were three thin lines, a single bold, four dashes, another single and five short points. 3 - 1 - 4 - 1 - 5 _Code_? Another white glow drew her attention down to the ornate wooden disks in the mantle, with a careful exploration of the first dial she felt a notch and also felt it rotate with a little applied pressure. Allowing her vision to return to normal her hands began working to rotate the frst dial to correspond with the code in the painting, settling it at her best guess of three-o-clock. Moving on to set the other dials at their positions, with well-practised hands she rotated the final dial in the mantle to its position, a satisfying click echoed through the room as it popped out revealing a hollowed drawer behind where the spire-like key rested. Taking the small item she examined it, taking note of the slight indentations on the metal and how the symbol on the painting was replicated here on the head of the pin, it couldn’t be a coincidence.

Reaching up to the spot she’d located on the painting, Root introduced the small key to the hole in the centre of the necklace and turned, watching as the painting swung open like a small door revealing a cubic hole behind. Inside was a lever, which she pulled without a second’s thought. The soft whirr of gears and compression of steam preceded the grind of the wall just to the side of the framed picture giving way, opening to a room beyond as dark as night.

Not bothering to subdue the excited grin that spread across her face, Root stepped in finding a lamp on the inside of the door which she proceeded to light with one of the matches she kept in her toolkit, bathing the room in a flickering orange light.

Like the study, the secret room was lined with shelves, and on those shelves were objects both alien and familiar. Among those she could categorise were intricate statuettes of unfamiliar deities long-since-passed, concealed weapons she’d never seen before and rounded canisters which seemed to be designed to diffuse gases or even shrapnel upon impact. On the farthest wall was a table, and on that table was another spherical object which she might have mistaken for another deployment tool had it not been for the odd patterns carved into its surface. Something about its intricate design however drew her forward, picking up the notes it rested on and reading over them with interest.

The first page of notes detailed the existence of bolt holes, vaults and hidden keys along with a documented history of something referenced simply as the London Brotherhood of Assassin’s. Turning over to the next leaf she scanned the words articulating Mr. Finch’s thoughts regarding the replicated artefact which drew her to this desk. This sphere according to the notes, was something known as a piece of eden; specifically the _Apple of Eden_. She’d attended enough Sunday school to know those stories but the idea of such a thing existing seemed beyond belief but nevertheless she continued to read the notes picking out key details.

> _Such a notion seemed preposterous to me yet the more information they bring to me the less I can deny the possibility of their existence. These beings, those who came before, before mankind walked the earth free, the facts litter historical documentations like pieces of a complex puzzle which I have been tasked with completing with only a handful of pieces. I have read the histories of the assassin Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, and the prophet Ezio Auditore da Firenze which has only further confirm my belief in the existence of these so called pieces of Eden - the most concerning to me being the apple, of which I have attempted to construct a scale model._
> 
> _I fear what I have learned about its capabilities; to bend a person’s mind at will, and create visions to alter their reality? The prospect of this technology being discovered by the Templar Order is troubling to say the least and I hope my assistance to the Creed aids their quest in the recovery of it. Their conflict has raged for almost as long as time itself, with the Samaritan organisation hoping to bring peace to the world by forcing it into submission. So unlike the Assassins, some of whom I have had the privilege to work alongside; who fight for freedom and a flawed humanity - putting the fate of free will above order. These secret orders have been at war－_

Her investigation was interrupted by the distant sound of a lock turning and a door opening and closing, “shit,” she breathed realising that she’d let herself linger for longer than planned, but with the new information she’d discovered she wasn’t entirely sure it was a waste. She also knew that completing this task was no longer the best course of action, not for her at least. There was no way she’d be able to take all these notes so she picked up the one about this _Creed_ along with the one she’d been interrupted reading. Swiftly making her exit also picking up one of the spherical devices she tucked both pages and explosive into the small satchel at her hip. Root could hear Harold’s footsteps around the main shop floor, the dominant step followed by a slight drag giving him away. She didn’t have long, but a plan was quickly formulating on the spot.

On her exit of the hidden vault she slipped over to the window lifting its latch and hefted it open, skirting back past the lever she pulled it back to its original position, closing the painting as the wall to begin rumble back into place. Aware the sound would have caught the attention of the inventor, she silently moved to position herself behind the door’s arc when it opened. The step-dragging footsteps were hurried now, and a few seconds after she’d settled into her spot by the door swung open, and a figure she immediately recognised rushed in muttering in concern. As she hoped, he spotted the open window and went over to it to investigate opening her chance. Sliding a needle she’d had ready for this moment out of her belt, Root left her hiding spot, creeping towards the man the carpet underfoot muffling any sound she might have made.

When Harold did notice her it was too late, he had begun to turn and she saw his eyes widen in surprise but she’d already grabbed him, sinking the needle into his neck and depressing the plunger to eject the chemicals within. The effect was almost instantaneous, his struggles growing weaker as the will to fight left his body. His attempts were valiant but futile, and soon unconsciousness took ahold his body which she let drop to the ground in a heap.

Root smiled winningly down at the unconscious man before her, eyes flashing with excited giddiness “this is going to be fun, isn’t it?” she asked, taking ahold of his arms and starting to drag his weight towards the back exit of the shop; where a carriage driven by her lackeys would be waiting to facilitate their escape.

* * *

Root had been staring into space for what seemed like a short eternity, but in actuality was probably only twenty minutes since she’d entered the room. She was sat with her feet propped up on the table studying her captive, who had been out for at least a couple of hours since she’d borrowed him from his workshop. After all it wasn’t exactly kidnapping anymore if she didn’t intend on taking him anywhere? The silence of the room was broken by the sound of her teeth sinking into an apple, biting off a chunk, chewing and swallowing whilst her mind continued to piece the things she’d learned earlier together.

During the time he’d been knocked out she’d studied the pages more in depth confirming what she suspected. Harold, the Assassins and the Templars. There was a direct connection between them all, these so-called secret organisations and they all were searching for some fabled piece of technology to change the world, a piece of technology Root found herself fast becoming fascinated with. Harold was working for these so called Assassins, helping their search with his tools no doubt, whilst she had been hired to take him for what she could only assume were these rivals.

She had just finished biting the apple down to its core, its tang still fresh on her tongue when she noticed her guest’s eyes flutter suggesting he was rousing. _Perfect_.

“Harold, glad to see you awake again” she chimed brightly to the man as he roused groggily, tensing when his brain registered the details of his situation along with the ropes binding his wrists together behind his back. “You and I need to have a talk.”

The inventor seemed to be coming back to his senses, peering at her through his glasses imperiously “I’m not sure what it is you want miss-”

She interrupted him with a small wave of her hand, lifting her feet from the table to stand “Root is fine.”

The recognition of her alias dawned in his eyes and expression which seemed to grow more guarded and wary - apparently her reputation preceded her. “Ms- Root,” he began once more “as I was saying I’m not sure what it is you want from me but I’m quite certain I’m in no position to assist you. Is this about my research into engines? I know I have competitors but there’s no need for… This.”

_Playing the oblivious victim card?_ The notion earned a soft sigh from her, “whilst I do appreciate your attempts at acting, Harry, can I call you Harry?” The question made Harold’s brows crease, giving away his frustration he opened his mouth to respond but she pressed on regardless. “I appreciate all this act, but what I want is information, and I’d be very careful how you answer my questions. See, I’m good at what I do I—”

“You mean thievery, kidnapping and murder?” he supplied with a disapproving look.

She didn’t bother suppressing her smile this time her glee dancing in her eyes, “my mum always encouraged me to pursue my talents. And you see this is my issue, I know every major player in the boroughs. You have to when you’re in my position around here, and then today on a contract... Today I was in for a bit of a surprise, since I happen to come across intel relating to two groups operating in the city that I’ve never heard of before. Though thanks to you Harry, that’s changed” she declared chipperly. “See, now I’m quite certain that the people who paid me to take you were Templars - that is what you call them isn’t it? Since you work with the Assassins it only makes sense they want you, but they don’t understand what’s at stake. Do they? They can’t begin to fathom how much power is in play.” Root tilted her head seeing how Harold’s eyes fractionally widened when she mentioned just what she’d been intending on doing his jaw working almost like he had something he wanted to say, but was uncertain as to the level of knowledge she already possessed.

“I understand, you aren’t talking because you don’t know how much I already know. Well, I know enough, so why don’t you tell me about the people you work with and these pieces of eden you’re hunting.”

“You won’t find them,” Harold scowled “if anything they’re going to find you first.”

Root fell silent for a moment, storing that piece of intel away for further study “well at least that’s confirmation they exist.”

She had been about to open her mouth but was interrupted as she heard a commotion outside, something that sounded like fighting. Why was it so hard to find competent security? Apparently the people now searching for her were efficient with their methods. Craning her neck to look at the door she glanced back to Harold with a pout “it seems that we’ll have to continue this another day. Places to be and all...”

Pulling the door open she spotted a smokey haze creeping down the hallway, “it really was lovely meeting you Harry. We should do this again sometime,” she chimed stepping out and opting for the nearest exit strategy having anticipated this possibility.

Strolling to the hatch in the floor she pulled it open and descended the ladder into the tunnels under the house, sliding the locking latch into place. Halfway down her climb she heard the sound of fast footfalls squeaking above suggesting Harold’s rescuers had arrived.

Her feet hit the ground Root allowed her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the tunnel, barely able to make out the brick and stone walls and damp dirt floor underfoot, but a short way down the tunnel a lantern hung. Approaching she took it down from where it rested on the wall and lit it allowing its flame to fill the tunnel with a soft, warm glow although it didn’t help to make her surroundings any more pleasant.

Ignoring the cobwebs draped over the support beams overhead and rats scattering away from the light’s intrusion she began to follow the winding tunnel, navigating the maze of twists and turns and occasionally ducking through grates when necessary. Eventually reaching a stairway to the surface, immediately following it up and stepping into the daylight a few streets away.

Instead of venturing away from the location she’d come from Root circled back, a belief in herself that filled her strides with confidence. Nearing the pub directly opposite the house she had slipped away from she slid into the crowd, navigating through the raised voices of arguments and conversation, clinking of glasses and to the stairs leading up. Resting in the shadows Root peered out the window overlooking the street below, watching for any sign of movement from the house she’d left some time prior, nothing for the time being. Her gaze swept away to one of the carriages further down the street, recognising one of her underlings lying in wait with instructions to follow any individuals who left the address. So far it had all gone according to her plan.

She had to wait patiently but was rewarded when she spotted the front door crack open, a youthful girl appearing, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail dressed in a refined leather coat that piqued Root’s curiosity. Root watched as the girl scanned the street methodically, said something over her shoulder and slinked out to commandeer an unattended carriage on the sidewalk. Shortly after the girl had settled into the driver’s seat she watched a big lug of a man in his mid-twenties help Harold to the carriage and get in. _So these were his associates? Interesting._

With a snap of the reins, the girl had their carriage leaving the sidewalk merging into the traffic on the street whilst Root noted her own depart shortly thereafter breaking out in a grin at the success of her little plot. A new game was in play now, and she was determined to emerge the victor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t completely sure about this chapter, I had some trouble writing it but I figured I’d post it and get it out the way. This one helps build on some AC lore along with some development between Root and Harold, so I figured I’d let you have it.
> 
> Anyway, I really hope you’re all having a wonderful holiday season wherever you are, and the next update should be coming soon. Merry Christmas everyone! :)


	4. Into the Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my Christmas present to you dear readers another update for the fic. I really enjoyed writing this chapter and I hope you enjoy it too. I’m also updating the side-blog with little AC character portfolios so if you aren’t a hundred percent sure who a named character is outside of the POIverse then there’s more than likely some small biography to fill you in and help give you a few details about them. Anyway enough of me rambling, enjoy the chapter!

Shaw was always filled with a sense of ecstasy when she stepped foot into the ring, the reputation she and John had built preceded them - the Mayhem Twins; two of the best fighters you might ever have the privilege to watch brawl. And tonight, Shaw lived up to her side of their reputation.

Which was exactly why she could be found stood in her corner of the ring, flexing her toned shoulders and working the kinks out of her neck, waiting for the announcer to seek out her next opponent. No doubt an egocentric fool lacking enough brains to want a fight with the her, after all she was now entering into the sixth and final round. At each side of the fences were faces of every racial background and class imaginable, their thundering cheers all-encompassing. Some of them were cheering for her, no doubt having won with betting on her success, whilst others (likely the losers) yelled obscene things. Their curses intermingled but she heard voices calling for her next opponent to rip out her entrails, or her clothes, it didn’t matter which so long as she was being shredded in some form or another. _Typical_.

None of it fazed Shaw, she was good at concealing her thoughts from her expression - a trick helping to keep her alive wherever she was, in the ring and out in the field. After the murder of her father the Reese family had taken her in, given her a shelter and helped teach her how to defend herself against the world. She appreciated everything they’d done for her during that time, never pushing her to do things she didn’t want, keeping her fed, letting her keep her own name and not questioning where she went when she vanished for hours during the day, only to return covered in mud and soot from her escapades.

Shaw knew that she wouldn’t have made it this far in her life without them or their patience, and so she had done her best to repay them by practising the skills they taught her. The training had been brutal at times, her tired body screaming after seemingly endless endurance sessions but with time she’d come to enjoy the burn in her slowly forming muscles until she was in peak physical shape; her body made up of smooth sinewed contours. She learned how to sneak quieter, fight faster, to climb higher than the rest of them until the day of her initiation into the Creed came. She’d been so good in her studies with William - a physician by trade, that he had even allowed her to shadow some of his medical training, teaching her how she could help treat any of the injured members in the Creed. Now, she was one of the best they had and she was _proud_ of that.

Shaw was snapped out of her musings by the announcement of her opponent, regarding a tall dark-skinned man leave the crowd and step the ring, he had a savage expression which turned into a sneer the moment he set eyes on her. Of course she recognised him immediately, one of the thugs who helped run business amongst the Blighters, another offshoot from Samaritan - Andre Wilcox. _Didn’t we drop him off to Fusco at the London Met. last week?_ She watched as he cracked his neck in a way that Shaw guessed was meant to look menacing, and It took everything in her power not to snort at the sight. Instead meeting his glare with a calm stare of her own, unperturbed in the face of the fight that was coming. _He doesn’t stand a chance._ She’d learned in her training that a calm expression and a dangerous look unnerved practically any contender; which worked in her favour before the rounds even started.

“Andre, aren’t you meant to be behind bars?”

“I was pardoned,” he explained with a smug smile “seeing as there was a significant lack of bodies. The law has seen that I’m innocent.”

They stopped at the centre of the ring, merely an arm’s length away from each other when the bell rang before they circled. They both had the same strategy; sizing the other up, seeking out weaknesses not that Shaw showed any, but she did raise an eyebrow at the declaration, a bribed judge no doubt - the Templars reach stretched far in the city now. “ _Sure_ , about as innocent as the waitress over there” she jerked her head towards the crowd letting her voice raise enough for them to hear the snark in her words, a smirk curling her lips “know her well don’t you? Seeing as she’s your mother after all.”

Amid the laughter from the crowd Shaw could practically see the steam now billowing from Andre’s ears at the insult, _good, anger leads to mistakes_.

Andre’s face twisted into a snarl just moments before he lunged for her. The crowd roared, but Shaw could barely hear them over the pounding of blood in her ears and rush of adrenaline flooding her veins. His strike was a wild blitz which she blocked, returning a left hook, her fist connecting squarely in his jaw with a satisfactory crack. He’d underestimated her strength and the impact caught him off guard causing him to reel back clutching his cheek in shock.

All prior approximation he’d had trying to gauge her was gone now, instead he launched a wild volley of hits that she blocked. The strikes were powerful but sloppy, giving her room to maneuver her shorter and more nimble frame around him. Occasionally a strike would break through her defence earning a grunt, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. Spotting an opening Shaw’s body instinctively ducked a punch, stepping in to throw a solid uppercut towards Andre’s chin, she followed it up with a sharp elbow to the nose, which exploded with a crunch of blood upon impact.

The crowds were growing louder now, the first draw of blood stirring their excitement into a rabid frenzy. Shaw still knew the limits though, there were lines she didn’t pass and all the injuries were things his body would eventually heal from. _His ego? Not so much_. There was a dull ache in her side around the area he’d managed to land a few punches, but Andre was dazed and had blood dripping from his nose leaving himself wide open for a takedown. Raising her foot Shaw sent a sharp kick square to his sternum, making him stumble backwards a few feet. Pressing the advantage of his exposed neck, she jabbed striking the man in the Adam’s apple. There was a loud exhale of air moments before he fell, like a dry sandcastle keeling over and staying down. The bell rang, and the crowd erupted.

Shaw felt her arm being raised and a heavy winnings bag being pressed into her palm, as the announcer declared her victory. But as she stood there she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, warning of a particularly intense gaze from behind her. Instinctively on the defensive Shaw pulled her arm away with a grunt, and spun in the direction she felt the look coming from, only to find herself watching the door swing shut in wake of a person’s swift departure.

Shrugging to herself Shaw pushed the odd moment aside, instead walking to the fence and placing her hands on the top of it. With a hop she vaulted lithely over the wood, landing on the other side where the crowds parted for her like Moses and the Red Sea immediately heading for the table where Reese was sat, watching with an amused gleam in his eye.

She swiped an arm over her forehead; damp with sweat, before sliding into the booth and settled opposite him already spotting a drink prepared for her which she eagerly grabbed.

“Did pretty well in there,” John commented raising his own glass in a toast. which Shaw mirrored with a wry grin.

Shaw mirrored the grin and raised her cup to knock with John's “‘course I did, I always do." taking a sip of the malt she savoured its burn on the back of her throat in combination with the pleasant ache in her muscles.

“Wasn’t that Andre?” John queried casting a sceptical look to the man being hauled of of the ring “I thought we sent him to Fusco last week...”

A huff escaped her lips, not answering immediately instead staring down at the glass rotating her wrist and watching the dark liquid swirl within, “guess it’s Samaritan’s meddling again. Not exactly surprising, after they got ahold of the Apple their reach has expanded; they’ve got a workforce of mindless slaves running their industrial empire” she muttered bitterly.

John pondered the notion, “the Council still isn’t happy with us coming here. Even less so now that the piece has fallen into their hands.”

“Well, we’re _going_ to get it back” she stated determination dripping from the words as her eyes raised to John, an angry glint in their dark hues, “Greer, Martine, and Lambert will get what’s coming for them.”

“You’re right. So let’s do something about it” Shaw watched him down the last of his drink, his glass clinking back to the table. “We received word from Joss from Paris today, she’s nearing the location of Arno Dorian’s sword of Eden, it might help us change the tide of this struggle.”

Shaw pressed her lips together, nodding at the new information regarding the former Parisian assassin swirling her drink as an idea struck her. “If Arno had a sword stored away, what’s the bet Kenway had some things that might help us here?”

The suggestion earned a perplexed look from John, “Kenway? As in the pirate and master assassin? What makes you think that?” but Shaw was already grabbing her discarded jacket digging through the pockets until she found the folded piece of paper she’d held onto after retrieving the throwing knife and searching her former target earlier.

“I was going to follow the lead down myself, didn’t think it would amount to much but…” she flattened the paper out tapping a scrawled address in the corner. “This address, I _thought_ I recognised it but now I remember where I’ve seen it before… Your father was telling me about some former Master assassins - this is the address of the Kenway mansion, and it seems like Samaritan has a new interest in it if this was on its way for delivery today” she studied the lines intently. “This must be a floor plan for the building, if Arno had the sword then what’s the bet Kenway stored some things somewhere in the city too?”

After studying the page John came to the same conclusion, sliding from the booth he glanced at Shaw who was already getting to her feet “I think we’ve got some fieldwork to do.”

* * *

The pair departed the pub side-by-side in companionable silence for most of the journey, Shaw chewing on a leg of chicken she’d picked up before they left, until the ambiance was broken by the click of claws echoing behind them. The sound causing the Mayhem Twins to stop, turn and find themselves facing a short-haired and rather unkempt looking dog staring directly back at them. Or— Staring directly at Shaw.

Raising an eyebrow at the dog as if it might give a reason as to why it had begun following them, Shaw glanced down at the bone she’d nearly eaten the meat down to and sighed, realising what it wanted. “Fine, here” she muttered, ripping off the bit of meat that remained and tossing it to the dog who rushed forwards to snap up the morsel, hoping it would keep the dog busy whilst they continued on their way.

Reese had walked on ahead and Shaw had to jog to catch up throwing the bone away in the process, before falling back into step with his brisk pace.

“If the Assassins have been in London all this time,  why haven’t they already searched the Kenway house?” John asked slowing when they neared their destination.

“I remember your father saying something about the property passing into Templar hands after Edward was betrayed and killed by a Templar” Shaw recalled. “They took his son, Haytham, and raised him as a Templar. Guess they assumed the house had been stripped of anything useful to the Creed, but if there’s new interest in the property perhaps they think something’s there.”

John chuckled as they walked towards the mansion gates in the square, “so, they’ve owned a house likely filled with Assassin history and treasure and never found them?”

“S’pose we’re better at hiding things than they are” she grinned smugly a look which faded quickly when she heard a familiar voice ahead addressing some individuals outside the property. “Bloody hell, what’s she doing here?” she muttered, ducking into the cover a nearby wall provided, firmly gripping her sword-cane in case they’d been spotted.

The voice however continued, causing the Mayhem Twins to relax slightly “I’ll be inside the house in the library. _None_ of you are to disturb me unless you make a discovery. Now go find me something.” Martine’s recognisable voice demanded, and Shaw could imagine the menacing glare delivered with that order before the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut could be heard.

John’s voice sounded lowly behind her, “well _that_ certainly makes this more interesting.”

“Always did like a challenge, let’s see what we can find.”

The pair scouted the wall surrounding the building eventually coming to stop at a towering tree at the back of the property, its thick upper branches reaching over the top of the wall and into the garden beyond. Without hesitation, Shaw bounded off the ground, hands and feet seeking out purchase on protruding stumps from broken branches using them like the footholds of a ladder to help her scale the bark to the upper limbs.

From her vantage point she could hear and spot John climbing behind her, he wasn’t nearly as good at scaling trees like she was, but eventually they both settled scanning the building ahead for any visible entry point. John was the one to spot the open window a short distance below where they rested and soon they were both moving again.

Using the balance gained from years of training Shaw edged ahead, along the branch nearest the window to leap and grab the edge of the window frame, hanging there a moment when she heard voices inside.

“I haven’t seen her this angry since Charlie dropped that blood vial.”

“Who’s Charlie?”

“ _Exactly_. C’mon we’d better find something.”

The voices grew quieter as the guards left the room, giving Shaw the chance to pull herself up and inside inside to dispatch the one Templar who had been left searching a bookcase with his back to the window. John had arrived in time to see her render the guard unconscious and help shift his body to a spot out of sight. Once the body was stashed Shaw pulled out the map of the house, studying the layout tapping one room on the ground floor “this one, it’s the easiest room to defend; only has a single entrance.”

Without waiting for John’s agreement she set off knowing he’d be in tow, they worked together in tandem to locate and dispatch, or simply creep past guards. Sweeping the upper level they soon found their way to the room on the ground floor that Shaw had pointed out.

The room was empty of Templars for the time being, and Shaw immediately found her eyes shifting to the centre piece of furniture; a majestic grand piano sat in its solitude. There were no other focal points in the room she could spot, and it was inconspicuous enough to not immediately come to mind as a key. Walking over to the instrument she extended a hand to trail over the ivories, feather light so as not to make any noise whilst Reese walked around the room’s perimeter no doubt using his eagle vision to scan for some kind of answer to opening Kenway’s vault.

Reese’s voice drew her attention over to him stood assessing what looked like a blank wall “the piano, can you play it if I give you some notes?”

“Sure,” she answered her fingers settling in preparation on the board playing the notes as Reese said them: _D, A, D, E, F, D_ , as soon as the last key was pressed the piano clicked. Suddenly the beautiful instrument began to reverberate with sound which flooded the room, a dramatic, enchanting and somewhat mesmerizing tune ringing out as the floor behind her began to rumble. “Pretty subtle, isn’t it?” Shaw turned from the piano to find herself facing a set of steps leading down.

“Clearly he has a flare for the dramatics, we’d better hurry they’ll be coming to investigate the noise.”

The pair quickly descended the steps into the room below which wasn’t very large, decorated with worn solid oak pieces of furniture. On the walls hung old buccaneering and pirate ship memorabilia, swords and pistols and even a ships wheel; giving the room an atmosphere akin to being inside the cabin of a pirate’s ship. _Fitting, all things considered_.

Besides the artefacts and loot on the walls the only other thing of interest was an old chest which Reese opened taking out a few journals stashed inside, a golden disk along with a map of London. “Looks like Kenway found some things of use here after all. We’ll probably find out more with these, we should take them back to Finch.”

Shaw nodded absently, engrossed with her own find; a journal left open on a page describing something Edward had found in the city. The find filled her with a sense of achievement “he found some kind of device, or… He calls it a machine, something beyond his comprehension, stored in a hidden vault in the city.”

John’s response was cut short by rushed footsteps and an angry voice from above.

“You heard music? Wait, there was no opening there before.”

Shaw cast a look at John who was holding the journals and leapt into action, grabbing the lever near the base of the stairs and tugging, causing the floor above to start rumbling back into place and triggering some cries of surprise.

“Why is it closing?! Quick, you there, help me block it!”

With the entrance sealed Shaw began scanning the room, methodically testing the artifacts on the wall for another lever or some kind of trigger. “There has to be another way out,” she gripped the spokes of the Jackdaw’s wheel feeling how they rotated a little under her grip and figured it must be the answer. Continuing to spin the wheel caused a small hatch to open into the sewers below, “let’s go.”

* * *

_Of course it had led to the sewers._ Shaw could see Reese’s grimace as he joined her back above ground after their short trip with the journals; a couple she had taken from him to ease his load.

Taking stock of their surroundings Shaw spotted the familiar red threadbare jackets of a few Blighters, unobservant to the two assassins who had emerged into the wooden-fenced yard behind them. The take-down would be be an easy one and she knew John was sharing the same thoughts as she was. There was no way they’d manage to freerun with the journals anyway, and the men were blocking their sole route out.

She had just been about to set the books down when a sound caused them both to freeze in surprise; a low and dangerous growl coming from the other side of the fence nearest the two goons. The guards jumped, attention caught by something that neither of the Mayhem twins could see but whatever it was the guards looked wary; the larger one automatically pulling out his knife.

Before anything else could happen there was a blur of black and brown, followed by a cry of anguish as the same canine from earlier launched itself at the two men. His ears were pointed just as sharply as his fangs which currently, were lodged deep in the smaller man’s arm. The Mayhem Twins could only watch as the dog’s head jerked from side to side as he dragged the man down, not long after the same individual’s movements stilled.

John and Shaw blinked as the dog that had come to their aid proceeded to launch himself at the other man, this time latching onto his meaty leg when he attempted to boot the dog in the face. The thug went down like his friend, struggling as the animal leapt on him with a harsh snarl; a sound which soon turned into a pained yelp following a flash of silver. The man managed to throw the dog off, but the noise had startled the onlookers to action.

Shaw was the first to react, dropping her books she darted forwards to kick the thug in the face, watching his eyes roll back into his head before hurrying to the dog which had collapsed a little distance away. Calming the rush she felt Shaw approached slowly, attempting to look as nonthreatening as possible but the injured canine simply whimpered. _At least it isn’t trying to maul us. That’s a good sign._ Dropping to her knees she began assess the wound, running her fingers through his fur soothingly as she determined it to be a knife-injury from the smattering of blood beginning to matt his hair “doesn’t look like it hit anything vital. You’re lucky boy… But that was dumb” she sighed to the dog, whose tail thumped against the ground in response.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, but he’s coming home with us” she decided, voice taking on a tone that Reese knew better than to argue with, simply watching her rip some of her shirt to press against the wound. “Let’s get back, you take the books I’ll carry this one” she gestured to the dog who she carefully scooped up grunting at his weight in her arms but he didn’t fidget for which she was thankful. Sure the dog was secure they began heading for the street to hail down a carriage.

“What are we going to call him?”

“I think…” she glanced into the dog’s dark eyes, lips pursing in thought. “Bear - he’s protective and ferocious when he needs to be. Yeah... We’ll call him Bear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was fun wasn't it? Meeting Bear and getting fighter Shaw. Something we all need in our lives right?
> 
> Anyway, an update from me in regards to this fic, I do fully intend on finishing it, however between now and New Years my schedule is kind of filled up really rapidly so I'm not sure when I'm going to have enough time to write the next chapter. I'll try my best but I can't make any promises as I'll only really have about a week in which to sit down and try to write it, before I then leave for Canada for 5 weeks (which is really exciting) but also means that until I'm back I'm probably going to have to push the pause button. But don't fear! I will pick this back up as soon as I'm back, I'm absolutely determined to finish this for you all and I promise I will.
> 
> Until next time dear readers, I wish you all the best in the New Year and hope you all have wonderful holidays wherever you are!


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